Page 17 of The Holiday Makeover

“Tate, I’ve been thinking.”

“Let me guess. More research about my brain adapting to you.”

“No. But I still maintain that it’s true.”

Tate opened his mouth to argue, but I held up my free hand. “I was just thinking that you wouldn’t be here if Coco hadn’t died and asked you to stay. I think that says a lot. You wouldn’t have chosen this. Me. So let’s just . . .”

I lost my train of thought as Tate’s gaze seared into me and pricked straight through my very soul.

His hazel eyes raged like a forest on fire.

“Why are you so hell-bent on me leaving? If you don’t love me, then tell me right now. And we’ll be done. Because you weren’t the only person hurt in this relationship.”

I bit my trembling lip, telling myself to lie. To rip off the Band-Aid right now. It would sting less in the long run for both of us.

I knew I’d hurt him when I told him I didn’t want his dream and that I was staying in Nashville. And I’d said things I wasn’t proud of. Like that he only thought of himself and that I wished I’d never known him. I’d thrown in some very vile names too—anything to distract myself from the pain of losing him.

A pain like I’d never felt before or since.

Not even losing Coco hurt as badly.

“Tate.” My voice unnaturally shook. “I’ve loved you since I was fourteen years old. I’ll always love you, but we want different things. And you should know that I’ve been thinking about moving back to Aspen Lake.”

Not that I had a full-blown plan. But I’d thought a lot about it since the day before, and I kind of liked the idea. And I knew that would be the nail in the coffin. He didn’t like coming home. Home was a reminder of his “failures.” No matter how many times I’d tried to convince him that he didn’t have to live up to anyone else’s impossible standards.

Tate’s face went slack.

“Coco wants me to,” I added, so he didn’t think I was just trying to sabotage us. I didn’t mention that she wanted him to move back as well. It was a moot point. Tate would never move back to our hometown.

“And, Tate, I’m sorry that I hurt you. That I didn’t choose your dreams. I just couldn’t. It all got to be too much for me.”

Just the thought of the Hollywood scene made me shake in my shoes. I knew I would feel so out of place there. It would have made me question even more if I really belonged with Tate.

“Anyway, I wish you all the best. I hope you find someone who gives you what you need.”

I turned from him back to my task. The stupid tears had returned, raining down my cheeks. I was going to need a heavy-duty moisturizer after this.

I waited for him to leave. To rip the Band-Aid off for me. I didn’t care that it was going to tear and leave me bleeding. At least then the wound in my soul would have a chance to heal.

After several awkward moments of my sniffling and steaming the wallpaper, he finally said, “Rory, I’m not leaving. I made that mistake once. I’m not doing it again. And I know what you’re going to say—that it just won’t work. But it hasn’t even been a day. How will we know if we don’t even give it a chance?”

Was he trying to kill me?

“We want different things, Tate,” I reminded him.

“It sounds to me like we still want each other.” He might as well have called out checkmate.

What was I supposed to say to that? Other than the truth. That I wasn’t sure I believed that he really wanted me. But he’d only disagree.

Then, as if Coco had to have her say, a piece of wallpaper slid off the wall right on cue. Underneath on the wall was her handwriting, scrawled in what looked like Sharpie:

Being in love is when home becomes a person, not a place.

She’d drawn a heart around it and signed it with her and Grandpa’s initials. It was adorable. And wildly inconvenient when my heart was already so confused.

Tate was home to me.

But he never seemed at home anywhere—not even in his own skin.